Where Within Harley Keener Thinks His Life is Over But It's Really Not
by InsufferableInsanity
Summary: He'd been so good at being invisible. He'd just turned thirteen (officially a pre-teen YEAH) and was finally learning how to properly avoid his mothers mood swings. He'd continued on with his life after 'The Mechanic' came and turned his world upside down. But when had his life ever been easy?


Harley had no idea how this had happened.

Well, technically, he _did_, because he knew he'd been taken by the guys in black, but he didn't know _why_. He'd been incredibly low-key lately, always making sure to stay quiet when the guys at school decided to jump him. He couldn't afford another suspension, not with his moms new boyfriend having moved into their tiny shack of a house. This one was currently the worst yet, and he seemed to love to terrorize thirteen year old boys. He basically lived in the garage now. Greg never dared set foot inside, because Harley had put so much security on every inch of the place that if he even breathed on the door the local sheriff would be at their house. It was _Harley's_.

These guys hadn't gotten the memo.

The gun wielding maniacs that broke into his house and tied him up with zip ties weren't talking. Usually that wasn't a problem for Harley, because if there was one thing he was good at it was talking. These men apparently didn't like that, if the rag shoved into his mouth was any indication. Harley groaned and rolled to his side, feeling the sharp edged of the plastic dig into his wrists. Not that he needed them to get the damn rag out of his mouth. They hadn't even thought to put duct tape over it. So a minute of silent struggling later on the floor of some kind of van got his mouth freed, but his wrists were already aching. Thankfully they hadn't put them on tight enough to cut off circulation.

Then they ran over a pothole, and Harley's head smacked against the floor _hard_. It felt like it had hit another bruise, probably from second period Gym when everyone decided to throw all the dodge balls at Harley at top speed. The gun that was suddenly in his face was a lot more worrying than a dodge ball, Harley decided faintly.

"You wouldn't shoot me, right? I'm obviously needed alive. Can-can you stop pointing that gun at me? It's making me nervous," Harley said, a mix of fear and desperation overriding his practically already non-existent self-preservation. The gun wielding maniac #1 decided to shut him by digging the gun into his cheek, and Harley tried to keep his mouth shut by biting the inside of his mouth _hard_.

"Shut it, kid," gun wielding maniac #1 growled from his comfy seat in front of Harley.

And he _tried_, he really did, but he was so nervous and had no filter and the next thing he knew he was saying, "Did you shove me into a creeper van? Like, is that really what just happened? How more cliche can you get? What are you guys going to do to me? Whatever it is, can I have some Tylenol first or something? My head really hurts, and I'm already going to be in so much trouble when I get home because today is laundry day and I completely forgot to make dinner," and the driver was white-knuckling the steering wheel and ordering gun wielding maniac #1 to "shut him up."

Harley came to in a bare concrete room. His head pounded every time he moved, or tried to think, or breathed, and it took him a long moment to gather up the courage to open his eyes straight forward.

Right at the gun pointed at his face.

He jumped backward with a yelp, which succeeded in doing absolutely nothing. He was tied to a wooden chair, arms around the back and his ankles strapped to the legs, and the entire position made him feel off-balance and vulnerable.

Not that he'd ever show it.

"Oh good. You're awake," a gruff voice came from somewhere behind the chair, and the man he assumed was it's owner walked around the circle of gunmen to face Harley, waving off the guy pointing the gun directly at his face. "No need for that, now. I'm sure we can come to an agreement," the man said around a cigar. His hair was short and white and he had a matching mustache. His name tag read "General Ross". Harley was willing to bet his car that he wasn't a real General. Not that it particularly mattered to him. He'd never trusted the government.

His head throbbed.

"So all I need for you to do, kid, is tell me everything you know about the Iron Man armor," "General Ross" said. Harley didn't move. For once, his head and his mouth were in agreement.

"General Ross" sighed. "This will be so much easier if you just cooperate. My intel tells me that you are the reason Tony Stark was still alive after the attack on his Malibu house. You helped him rebuild the suit. So I know that you know more about it than a lot of people. All I need is for you to tell me how to build it, or I'm going to make your young life even more miserable than before."

That wasn't possible. Unless he chopped off one of his arms or something. Life was pretty damn miserable already with all his limbs intact, thankyouverymuch.

Harley glared. "Go fuck yourself," he spat, and tried to ignore the crack in his voice. That was just puberty.

When "General Ross" saw that he wasn't going to receive another answer, he sighed once more (he really should get that checked out. Harley didn't even want to know how much stress must be involved being an evil villain) and gestured to someone to Harley's left.

Before he could move, a large hand gripped his right shoulder and held him still. Another was pointing a needle at his neck. It was quick and painless, but Harley still opened his mouth to scream because they'd just _injected_ him with something and what if he had _AID's_ now, he was only thirteen and his life was _over_––

"Tell me everything you know about Iron Man," "General Ross" ordered, and Harley opened his mouth and words came out.

He woke up to the sound of moving metal. Cool terror paralyzed him in place, not that he had much mobility in the first place. He focused on steady breathing, in and out in and out, just like Tony did. He did not want to have a panic attack right now. When he was alone that was fine. Not that he was ever really _alone_, what with the armed body guards and the patrol outside his door at all times.

It had been two days since he'd last seen "General Ross". After he hadn't gotten to answers he wanted from Harley he'd left, leaving him with the crazy gun wielding maniacs. Not that they'd needed guns to hurt him. They'd done just fine with their bare hands.

He'd been given food every few hours along with potty breaks. It was after the second bathroom break that Harley came back and saw the camera that someone had set up in the front left corner of the room. The red light taunted him every time he tried to sleep. Unsuccessfully, might he add. It wasn't exactly comfortable in the goddamn chair with his wrists and ankles still tied up. He'd lost feeling in his hands hours ago, and there wasn't enough wiggle room to even move his legs a little, so he couldn't exactly feel those either.

His door opened fully, revealing the grim face of "General Ross". He didn't look exactly pleased with Harley, but he was used to that look. Especially from his mom.

"Take off the tape," "General Ross" ordered the gun wielding manic to his right, who dutifully removed the duct tape from Harley's mouth with a swift _yank_. He hissed at the pain.

"What now? Gonna ask for my Iron Man action figure? Sorry. I seem to have mis––"

The punch to his face wasn't as unexpected as it probably should have been. He groaned weakly and tried to straighten up, the corner of the chair digging into his shoulder painfully. Another blow knocked him right back down. Blinking rapidly against the black dots in his vision, he moved his jaw back and forth to help with the pain. Punches to the face weren't new to Harley, who faced bullies daily at school. That's all that this guy was: an overgrown bully.

Distantly he was aware of "General Ross" stepping forward. "Are you ready to talk now, boy?"

No, he wasn't. He'd managed to get around the truth serum they'd given him, but that had only gotten him an even bigger headache combined with new bruises everywhere. Somehow these guys were immune to his puppy-dog eyes, solidifying Harley's belief that they were pure evil.

"General Ross" glared. "Then I'll just have to go straight to the source," he sneered gruffly. Harley didn't understand what he meant until "General Ross" turned to face the camera and gave it an insincere smile.

"Hello, Mr. Stark," he greeted it. "As you can see, I have your friend. He's very difficult to get answers from, just like you. So I'm sending this to you in Avengers Tower in New York City, and I hope that you and I can reach an agreement. You see, Mr. Stark," this was when Harley tuned it out, too busy staring at the camera in horror to care about the evil monologue going on in front of him.

"No!" he screamed before thinking. "Tony! Don't listen to him! I can handle this! Don't––"


End file.
